


All That Remains

by springhorton



Series: Requiem [1]
Category: Lewis (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, handjob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-06
Updated: 2012-09-06
Packaged: 2017-11-13 16:52:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/505667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/springhorton/pseuds/springhorton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year ago, Sherlock Holmes fell from the roof of St Bart's and neither he, nor John Watson has been able to move on. But Sherlock has a plan to return and bring down Moriarty's organisation. It will take some time and the help of his best friend who he's come to realise he loves. Oh, and he's chosen Oxford for their hide out, where there are a few detectives that might just be worth their weight, by the name of Lewis and Hathaway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That Remains

**Author's Note:**

> This is part one of a Sherlock/Lewis crossover AU. There isn't really any Lewis in this chapter, just an intro to the circumstances of their involvement. There is a musical element to all three stories. I obviously don't own any of the songs. In this one I make reference to Pocketful of Sunshine by Natasha Bedingfield and Fix You by Coldplay. Also, the Lewis ideas involved in this will continue from my story, Redemption. You don't have to read that one first, but there are some characters I established in it that will continue in this series.

Angry storm clouds darkened the sky and a cold breeze threatened, but Sherlock Holmes didn't care. He continued the angry pace he'd set, walking around his rented holiday cabin.  
The owner of the park, a short, stout woman named Maude, watched Sherlock from the window of the main house. Her daughter had just arrived home from school and stepped up behind her.

"He's been punishing himself like that for an hour," Maude mumbled.

Her daughter was Shelly, a rambunctious and clever fifteen year old. She was also curious, much too curious for her own good. "He's new," she observed.

"Yes," her mother answered. "He moved in this morning. Very quiet man. Sad eyes."

"Maybe he'd like some company then," Shelly said as she ran out the door.

"Shelly!" Maude yelled and stumbled after her.

Sherlock stared at the uneven ground ahead of him, dodging clumps of grass and rocks. He did so mechanically, without really seeing them. He was trying to quiet his reeling mind, something he'd been practicing for some months. He'd found that being alone with his thoughts could be a very dangerous proposition.

Now, as he marched on, he was left with only a song. He'd thought it a silly song when he'd first heard it, but it kept popping in to his head, especially when he thought about...And even when he tried not to think about him. It had become a kind of anthem. He didn't even know who sang it, didn't really want to know. All he knew was that it was about secret places, better days and pocketfuls of sunshine. They were the only things keeping him going; John and his song. 

As he rounded the corner to the front of the cabin he saw a girl waiting for him. He looked her over with a frown, deducing that she was the owner's daughter and had just come home from school. He noted with interest that his frown did not deter her from walking up to him.

"Hi!" she said brightly.

"Hello," Sherlock answered hesitantly and then turned back to his walk.

The girl fell in step beside him. "I'm Shelly. My mum owns this place."

"Ah," Sherlock said, irritated by the interruption in his self-imposed punishment. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Maude coming down the path from the main house.

"My mum says you're punishing yourself."

"Does she?"

"Yep. Why would you want to punish yourself?" she asked. Sherlock looked at her incredulously, but did not answer. She waited and then pleasantly said, "Where are you from?"

Sherlock eyeballed her again and then answered flatly, "London."

"Oh, I love London!"

"Do you?"

"Oh yeah. I've never actually been, but-"

"Then how do you know you'd love it?"

"Well," Shelly started, a bit put off, "I know all about it."

Sherlock closed his eyes, his patience tried about as far as he could stand it. He opened his mouth to make a nasty retort, but then the memory of John's face, marred by irritation at Sherlock's impatience, swam in to view. He closed his mouth and sighed, marching on without saying anything.

"Have you been to Oxford yet?" Shelly pressed. "It's not that far. It's really nice too."

As they rounded the cabin again, Maude came in to view.

"I am so sorry," she said. "My daughter will not disturb you any further."

"We're fine," Sherlock assured her. The words surprised him, but he realised that they were true. He liked the girl's persistence.

They walked on, leaving Maude a bit stunned.

"You're not very friendly," Shelly observed.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched in a smile. "No," he agreed.

"Did something bad happen to you?" she asked. Sherlock stopped again and stared at her so she added, "To make you that way I mean?"

"Several things," he answered and moved forward.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Shelly asked. "Is that why you punish yourself?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Are you studying psychology?" After a pause he added, "I am not discussing my childhood with you."

"Well, what about now?"

"What about it?"

"You're sad. Why?"

Sherlock stopped and gritted his teeth. "I'm fine."

He said it with such a sense of finality that Shelly did not follow his when he started walking again. She just watched him go, not sure what to make of the mysterious stranger.

 

"No...Don't...Sherlock!"

John Watson woke with a start, his body covered in sweat. He’d finally come to a point where only every third night was punctuated with nightmares of Sherlock falling from the roof of St. Bart’s. Of course, his subconscious had grown bored with that and he was now plagued by other, horribly imaginative scenarios as well. He tried to comfort himself with the thought that none of these things had actually happened to Sherlock, but it did little to ease the ache that had spread all the way to his soul. If John had ever doubted having a soul, he didn’t now. He knew it was there because he could feel it being eaten away.

He rested his head back against the pillow and stared at the other side of the bed. It was empty, but for a maroon silk dressing gown. A year later it didn’t really smell like Sherlock, but it was John’s favourite. He could still picture Sherlock wearing it and that’s all that really mattered.

After a few minutes of trying not to scream or cry, John got out of bed to face the day. The bed was in a spare bedroom at his sister’s flat. When Sherlock died, John tried, tried so very hard, to stay at the flat at Baker Street. But he soon found himself wasting away; spending countless hours pouring over memories or just staring at Sherlock’s empty chair. After a couple of months, he’d reluctantly told Mrs. Hudson that he’d have to leave. Much to his surprise, the flat was let right away, to Mycroft, who’d left everything exactly the way it was when Sherlock had been there.

Well, almost exactly. John had needed to get away, but he couldn’t leave Sherlock behind completely. Along with his own few possessions, he’d packed up Sherlock’s Union Jack pillow, his dressing gowns and that ridiculous skull.

He put the dressing gown in the closet and picked out something to wear. Like a good soldier, he would tackle the day, go through the motions and not let anyone know what he was really feeling. He had a job interview and he was determined to nail it, whether he really wanted it or not. It was hospital work and would, at least, keep his mind occupied.

Later that day, after the interview, he walked back to his sister’s flat, feeling like things could have gone better. He walked through the door and was immediately accosted by Harry.

“How did it go?” she asked. John only shook his head so she added, trying to sound cheerful, “You have a letter. I put it on your nightstand, under that skull.” She emphasised the last word with obvious displeasure at having something like that in her house.

“Thanks,” he answered flatly and walked passed her to his room.

She watched him go, shaking her head. She knew what it was like to descend into madness.

John opened the door and looked the letter over. He picked it up, noticing that it was written on old fashioned stationary, but had no return address. He felt a twinge of excitement in his stomach, the way he did when he heard about an unsolved mystery on the news. He slowly opened it, read a few lines and felt his mind reel. His breath caught in his throat and the letter fell to the floor.

 

Petals from summer wildflowers swirled in the air and landed peacefully on the surface of the lake. The day was quiet, a slight breeze all that remained of the raging storm from the evening before. Sherlock sat on a stone bench, in a tattered dressing gown and watched ducks chase the petals. The sun warmed the back of his head and neck and he reached up to touch the dark hair that was just getting long enough for curls to form again. He sensed a presence and knew that it was the girl before she said anything.

“Mister Sherringford?” she said cautiously.

Sherlock dried his tears and glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. He looked back toward the lake and Shelly took this as an acceptance of her presence. She quietly sat down on the other end of the bench.

“Sorry about yesterday,” she murmured.

Sherlock nodded, but didn’t say anything.

Shelly frowned. “Are you ok?”

Sherlock thought for a moment and then said, “No.”

“Did you hurt someone?” she asked. “Is that why you punish yourself?”

He turned and stared at her, his eyes filling with tears again. He gritted his teeth and nodded.

“Did you love them?”

Sherlock thought again and he knew that he did. “Yes,” he whispered.

“Did they love you?”

He glanced out at the water, his mind pouring over memories of John, willing the evidence of what he wished was true to be there. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “I don’t know.”

“You miss her…or him…though?”

“Him,” Sherlock answered lowly and then turned to look at her again. “Every second of every day.”

Shelly was speechless for a moment, held by the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze. After a few moments, he turned away and she said, “Maybe you could apologise, make up with him.”

She fully expected him to say that it was impossible and that she was too young to know what she was talking about, but he didn’t.

Instead, Sherlock smiled mirthlessly and said, “I’ve sent him a letter, asking him to come. I doubt that he’ll believe it’s from me, but he’ll be curious enough to come.”

Shelly frowned. She was happy that her new friend was going to try and right his wrong, but she was confused as to why the man he loved wouldn’t believe the letter was from him.

 

The cabin was dark and quiet, but John had his gun drawn anyway. He quickly picked the lock on the front door and snuck into the small holiday cabin. The downstairs was empty so he carefully made his way up the stairs to the loft bedroom. On the bed, with his back to John, was a sleeping figure. John quickly crept over to the bed and grabbed the figure, getting an arm around his neck and shoving the gun against the back of his head.

Sherlock woke with a start and heard John growl, “Who are you? Why did you send that letter?”

“John?” he said softly. He heard a gasp and turned over to look at the intruder.

John’s eyes widened and he stumbled backwards, shaking his head. “No,” he stammered. “I…I saw you fall.”

“John-“

“No!” he screamed. “He’s dead!” Then he quickly turned the gun and pistol whipped Sherlock. He grabbed him again as blood began to gush from his nose. “Who are you?” he yelled.

Sherlock’s eyes filled with tears and not just from the blow to his nose. He gazed in to John’s crazed eyes, willing him to understand.

“John, I’m sorry,” he said, so quietly that John could barely hear him. “It was the only way to protect you.”

“No!” John screamed again and yanked Sherlock’s head closer to the gun.

“Listen,” he quickly pleaded. “The day we met was in a lab at St. Bart’s. Mike Stamford introduced us.” John shook his head, not wanting to hear, but Sherlock pressed on. “Remember? I borrowed your phone. I sent a text about a case I was working on. Molly brought me coffee, black with two sugars.”

A lump formed in John’s throat and tears began spilling from his eyes. 

“I had to jump. Moriarty had people in place, people who would have killed you…and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.”

John shook his head again. “I saw you fall.”

“I know and I’m sorry.”

“But how, Sherlock? How did you fake it?”

Sherlock hesitated, a softness John had never seen, entering his eyes. Then he took a deep breath and smiled slightly. “I didn’t.”

John’s mouth fell open and his heart skipped a beat. “You mean…you actually…”

“Yes. Of course, I took precautions to improve the odds of survival, but…there was no guarantee.”

“Precautions?” John repeated with a nervous chuckle. “But I saw you lying there on the sidewalk, covered in blood. You had no pulse!”

“I saw you too, before I lost consciousness.”

“But, if you were alive, why didn’t we know, why…” he trailed off desperately, unable to hold back his tears now.

“The world had to believe I was dead. Molly helped with that.”

“Molly Hooper?” John asked in disbelief. “She helped you, got to know the truth?”

“Yes. No matter the outcome, she was to declare me dead and fix the evidence to prove it. I also had her draw extra blood to make the scene as convincing as possible. Though I dare say that some of what you saw was from the impact. I didn’t exactly come away unscathed. My homeless network helped with the scene as well.”

John’s eyes widened again. “The bike messenger?”

“Yes.”

“The crowd?”

“Yes.”

Suddenly the gun dropped to the floor and John covered his face with his hands. Sherlock reached over to touch his arm, but John slapped it away. He scrambled away from the bed, his face full of anger.

Sherlock sat up. “John-“

“No, no…you…” He rushed back to the bed and clocked him across the cheek.

Sherlock fell back on the bed and did not move. He only stared at John, dejected, his eyes pleading.

John’s anger dissolved as suddenly as it had come. He looked the other man over, seeing the numb look in his eyes, the slight frame with barely any substance on it and the fading track marks on his arms.

“How long have you been clean?” he asked.

“A couple of months,” Sherlock answered.

Slowly, John sat down next to him. They stared at one another for a moment and then threw their arms around each other. They cried together until they couldn’t cry anymore and then, suddenly, they were kissing. They devoured each other’s lips, hot breaths mingling and tongues tasting. After a few moments, they broke apart, John confused and Sherlock terrified.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, breathlessly.

John frowned at him and then shook his head. “No, you just surprised me. I didn’t think you…”

Sherlock smiled, relieved, but still nervous. He gently reached for John again, not sure how he’d react, but John welcomed him. The two of them layed back in each other’s arms and instantly fell asleep.

John woke early the next morning to the sound of Sherlock’s screams. He bolted upright and saw him thrashing on the floor. He quickly scooted off the bed and roused him.

“Shh. It’s alright,” he whispered, but Sherlock only stared at him like a wild animal caught in a trap. He ran his hand through his friend’s dark curls and Sherlock’s ragged breath began to slow.

“Everything’s going to be ok now,” John reassured him and pulled him tight. He felt Sherlock’s slender arms hesitantly wrap around him and he felt a corresponding tightness in his abdomen. He kissed Sherlock’s hair and slipped his hands under his t-shirt. He heard a gasp and felt the bulge of Sherlock’s growing erection pressing against him.

“John,” he whispered and John expected to hear murmurs of affection, but instead it was followed by, “Don’t.”

John pulled back, surprised and Sherlock scrambled out of his arms. “Are you ok?” he asked, alarmed.

“I’m fine. I’m…sorry.”

John got up and started toward him, but Sherlock held up a hand and said, “Please, just…don’t.” Then he turned and walked down the stairs.

Later, as John came downstairs, he knew that Sherlock would say absolutely nothing about what had happened the night before. There was coffee and juice as well as a plate of bacon and eggs waiting for him. Sherlock sat in a tattered dressing gown, reading a local paper. A wave of nostalgia hit John so hard that he felt faint and clutched at the bannister to keep himself standing.

When it had passed, he stepped in to the small kitchen and said, “Good morning.”

“Morning,” Sherlock mumbled.

So this is how it’s going to be? John thought, Like the last year never happened?

“Where’d you get the dressing gown?” he asked.

Sherlock turned down the corner of the paper with a curious look. “Paris,” he finally answered.

“Oh Paris was it? Been gallivanting around the last year have we?” John looked up from his breakfast expecting an impatient remark or annoyed look, but instead, Sherlock’s eyes revealed only pain and sorrow.

No, he thought, things are different now. He put down his fork and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-“

“I was trying to track down the players in Moriarty’s organisation. It’s a vast network, John.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Really.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. John gave him a curious look and he said, “Probably the landlady.”

John nodded and got up to answer it to find Shelly looking out at the drive.

“I saw the car and thought maybe-“She stopped short when she turned and saw John in the doorway.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m-“

“Henry,” Sherlock cut in, having crept up behind him. “Henry Littlejohn.”

John cocked an eyebrow at him and then said, “Yes. Henry.”

“Hi, I’m Shelly. My mum owns the place. I was just checking…to see if everything was alright,” she added with a meaningful look at Sherlock.

“Yes, Shelly. We’re fine.”

She beamed at him and then added, “Oh, you told mum you wanted to stay a few more days. She added it to your bill.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, taking the slip of paper from her.

“Ok, by then. Off to school.” 

She ran down the drive, ecstatically, John watching her go and shaking his head. “What was that all about?”

“She’s worried about my happiness,” Sherlock quipped.

John shut the door and sat back down at the table. “Henry Littlejohn? Who the hell is Henry Littlejohn?”

“He was a Victorian surgeon,” Sherlock answered casually.

“I see,” John said and picked up Sherlock’s bill. “H. Sherringford?” he said with a chuckle. “That’s your alia?”

“Yes.”

“What does the H stand for?”

Sherlock hesitated and John was surprised to see that he was blushing lightly. “Hamish,” he finally mumbled.

John stared at him for a moment, the smile fading from his face, before putting the bill back down. “What’s this all about, Sherlock? I mean, why did you contact me now?”

Sherlock smiled. “I found Moriarty’s second in command. He’s a military sniper, John. A man named Sebastian Moran. If I can lure him out then I can bring him down. He’s not an easy man to find though or to manipulate.”

“But what about your reputation and your innocence? The world thinks you’re a fraud who killed Moriarty before committing suicide.”

Sherlock grinned again and jumped up from the table. He went to the hall closet and brought back a safe. He unlocked it while John watched curiously. He pulled out a laptop, his laptop, and another tiny object.

John stared at the computer. “How did you get that? It was in Baker Street. When were you back at the flat?”

Sherlock ignored him and went about setting up the computer. Then he held out the tiny object. “Do you recognise this?” he asked.

“Is that the camera that was planted at the flat?”

“Yes, the one I hijacked the signal to. I was wearing it on the rooftop. It recorded every moment and sent it back to my computer.”

John’s jaw fell open. “You mean the evidence was right there? The whole time?”

“Yes.”

He showed the file to John; Moriarty revealing the truth about the key code, Moriarty threatening John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Moriarty taking his own life. When it was over, John paced the small kitchen, shaking his head.

“Why didn’t you come forward? The evidence was all there.”

“It still meant putting you in danger. I had no idea where Moriarty’s people may have been. If Moran is brought down, the organisation will fall apart, but only then.”

“So, what are we going to do?”

“Stay here and wait until we can catch Moran. I have my eye on a nice little cottage. I’ve written a letter to Mycroft as we’ll be needing some money. You can take it to him tomorrow and pack up what you need. Just tell people you need to get away for a while.”

John stared at him in disbelief. “Just pack up and leave?”

“Well…” Sherlock said, trying to cover his alarm. “That is why I contacted you. If you have something more pressing though…”

John smiled and shook his head. “No, I don’t.”

“Besides,” Sherlock added with a grin of his own, “some of the local law enforcement show promise. Perhaps we could help them out.”

The two of them spent the rest of the day planning John’s escape and going over what Sherlock knew about Sebastian Moran.

That night, John took the sofa downstairs while Sherlock slept in the loft. John couldn’t sleep though and soon heard crying from upstairs. He got up and crept in to the loft. Sherlock was turned away from him again, trembling and trying not sob quietly. John put a hand on his shoulder and sat down behind him.

“It’s over now, Sherlock,” he whispered.

Sherlock turned to face him, wiping away his tears. “Make love to me,” he said, quietly.

John stammered for a moment and then said, “Are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded and pulled him down into a kiss. 

Suddenly, John’s mind filled with music; When you’re too in love to let it go. He kissed Sherlock slowly and gently. But if you never try, you’ll never know. He pushed Sherlock’s shirt up and carefully slid his pants down, wrapping his hand around the other man’s half erect cock. Sherlock gasped, so he leaned over and whispered, “Shh,” in his ear. Just what you’re worth.

Sherlock tensed up as John began to work his hand up and down his cock. In no time he was fully erect and breathing hard. His hands balled up in the sheets and he pushed his head back.

“Relax, Sherlock,” John soothed, but it had little effect so he leaned over and rubbed his tongue down the underside of Sherlock’s shaft.

Sherlock let out a strangled cry so John covered the tip with his mouth and flicked it with his tongue. He felt his own cock grow hard and Sherlock’s muscles relax, his eyes rolling back in his head. John sucked a few more times and then used his hand again, pumping faster and faster until Sherlock’s hips were thrusting into his fist.

“John!” he cried. “I can’t-“

“I know. Just let go.”

Sherlock let out one more loud moan before his come started spilling out over John’s hand. He thrust a few more times and then settled back on the bed. He watched as John stripped and then let him turn him on his side.

John crouched down, found Sherlock’s puckered opening and gently massaged it with his tongue. He heard Sherlock sigh as he put his head back again. He quickly had him squirming. He used Sherlock’s slick come on his fingers as a lubricant and carefully pushed one in to the first knuckle.

“John,” Sherlock breathed and tensed up again.

“Relax,” he whispered in to his ear and thrust his finger in and out a few times.

Sherlock whimpered and John turned him on to his back. “You’ve really never done this before have you?” he asked. Sherlock looked away, embarrassed so John said, “It’s ok.” He turned his face back towards him and then lifted his knees up and tried again. He kissed and nipped at his neck and rubbed his regrowing erection before pushing his finger in again.

This time Sherlock was relaxed and felt John’s finger as a pleasurable pressure. The pressure grew as it slid in deeper and then in and out. Before long Sherlock was pushing back and forth to meet him.

John thrust his finger all the way in and teased the opening with another. He leaned over to lick Sherlock’s chest and felt him dig his long, slender fingers into his hair. His other finger slid inside and he worked them gently in circles.

A low whine began to hum from Sherlock’s lips and the sound of it drove John crazy. He slipped his fingers out and with some spit and his own pre-come he slicked up his cock. As he did so, Sherlock reached for him and helped guide him in.

Sherlock grunted as he felt John push in, but he reared up to meet him, yelling out as he did so.

“Take it easy,” John murmured and waited for Sherlock to relax. He rubbed his stomach and cock to help ease things along and then took up a slow, steady rhythm.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock breathed. This was better than any drug he’d tried. He’d thought that sex would dull his senses, but instead, he was in tune with every detail; the smell of John’s sweat, the softness of his hair, the thousand sensations taking place in his nether region, his fingertips tingling as he ran them down John’s back, slick with sweat. His long fingers settled on John’s backside and he pulled his closer, feeling his cock plunge deeper. He pushed his head into the pillow and arched his back, moaning loudly.

John could feel their climax coming quickly so he stopped to let them breathe. He wanted this to last for Sherlock. His partner looked up and him with a smile and he started thrusting slowly and gently again. He reached down to tease Sherlock’s cock causing him to scream John’s name and push hard against him.

Sherlock began to hum again and John leaned over to kiss him, feeling the vibrations enter his mouth. He took Sherlock’s arms and held them over his head, their bodies pressed tightly together. After a while he slowed again to keep them from coming and sucked on Sherlock’s earlobe.

“John,” Sherlock pleaded. “Please John…I need…”

John smiled and thrust deep and hard, causing Sherlock to cry out and the bed to creak. They began bucking wildly, crying each other’s names and thrusting faster and faster.

John felt himself coming quickly and pounded into Sherlock. “Oh god,” he moaned. “Fuck Sherlock!” he screamed and felt himself explode. He thrust a few more times and was done, but Sherlock held on to him. 

Sherlock began to shout, over and over, his hips shoving towards John on their own. He kept going, head bowed, arching towards John. “John!” he screamed and then his body tensed up and come shot towards the ceiling. He wrapped his hands around John’s backside and pulled him deeper as he threw his head back and screamed, “Yes!”

John could feel Sherlock’s body shaking from the effort, but he finally let go and fell back to the bed, his breath heaving so hard he was almost choking. Without warning, they both started to laugh, and then cry. John snuggled up on top of him and wiped away his tears.

The next morning, John set out for London with Sherlock’s letter in tow. He stopped at his sister’s first to get a few things.

“Harry, I’m fine,” he assured her with a smile.

“What’s going on, John?” she asked.

“I just need to get away for a while. That’s all.”

“In Oxford?”

“Why not?” He kissed her on the cheek, promised he’d call and then was out the door.

He still had a key to the flat in Baker Street so he waited until Mrs. Hudson had gone out and then let himself in. He had a list of the things Sherlock needed and began packing them into a box. He’d been careful not to be seen, but within minutes the door to the flat opened and Mycroft stepped in. John gave him a half-hearted smile, not surprised to see him in the least.

“Hello Mycroft.”

“John,” he answered. “You didn’t think you’d go unnoticed did you?”

“No.”

“May I ask what you’re doing then?”

John stared at him for a moment and then took the letter from his pocket. “I’ll be going away for a while. There are some things I’ll be needing, including, ah, some money.”

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow incredulously and then took the letter. He looked at John another moment and then opened it. He quickly read it through, shaking his head and then read it again. His knees went weak and he found himself sinking into Sherlock’s old chair.

“It’s his handwriting, isn’t it?” John asked.

“Yes,” Mycroft answered quietly.

“Will you help then?”

“Yes, yes of course,” he answered numbly, pulling out his checkbook.

By nightfall, John was heading back to Oxford, having cashed Mycroft’s check, much to the annoyance of his bank. When he walked in to the cabin, he found Sherlock asleep on the sofa. He sat and watched him for a while. Then he covered him with his coat and went up to the loft.

The next day, the moved out of the cabin and Sherlock drove them to Oxford where he stopped at an estate agents office and then out into the countryside again. After a couple of miles, they stopped at a drive by the Cherwell. They parked, opened the gate and then hauled their few possessions over the footbridge that crossed the river. On the other side was a nice sized cabin with a bit of land.

“Well, this is very nice,” John commented as they stepped up to the door. Inside they could see a sunken foyer with a living room to the side.

“It belonged to a professor who murdered one of his students,” Sherlock said. “There in the living room,” he added.

“So that’s why it came cheap,” John mumbled.

“Yes, but it’s still what we need; a secret place.”

“A secret place?” John repeated.

“Exactly. For…better days,” he added, feeling a bit embarrassed.

“Ok,” John said slowly, nodding at him.

They had little to unpack, but John watched amused while Sherlock tried his hand at being domestic. In the end, his things were cluttered about in a mess just as they’d always been.

John made tea while Sherlock plopped in to a chair, exhausted. When John stepped out of the kitchen, he was napping. He put the cups down and watched with a smile. 

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try…to fix you

Later that evening they settled down for a snack in the living room. 

“The telly even works,” John said after turning it on. There wasn’t much on, but he settled for the news as Sherlock made sandwiches in the kitchen. As he started for the living room he heard John gasp.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Police report, a missing person. Sherlock, the bloke who’s missing looks-“

“Yes,” Sherlock said, standing in the doorway, staring at the screen. “The case is headed up by Inspector Lewis, that one there. He’s one of the ones I mentioned before. Phone him and offer our services.”

“Why would he let us get involved? You don’t have your reputation to go on anymore, you know.”

“Trust me, when he sees me, he’ll let us in on the case.”


End file.
